What Never Was
by Baraqiel
Summary: Harry is left feeling guilty after Sirius' death. But, what happens when an extra journey is required to defeat the Dark Lord? Attempted re-write of Half-Blood Prince. Warning: Eventual slash (SB x HP)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the associated characters. They belong to J.K. Rowling.**

**A/N: This is my first attempt at a fic. PLEASE give me feedback - good, bad or indifferent! I have never written anything before, so I would love constructive criticism. If you want me to continue with this story, please also let me know. :)**

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"_Sirius!" Harry screamed as a pair of arms snaked themselves around him, stalling his movement. The flash of green distorted his Godfather's face making him look enraged. His eyes focussed on Harry, a look of intense hate filling their steely grey depths. From somewhere nearby Harry heard the insane cackling of his murderer. Another voice pervaded his senses. A cold whisper taunting him, blaming him, for his Godfather's death..._

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Harry was pulled from his subconsciousness. He rubbed his eyes wearily and looked towards Hedwig's cage. She still wasn't back yet. Harry sighed and held his ribs for fear that they would split. The pain that had made a convenient home between them had been threatening to burst free ever since he had arrived back at Number Four after the horrific events in the Department of Mysteries. Harry knew that no one held him responsible for his Godfather's death; he knew that even Sirius would never hate him, but Harry blamed himself. As the guilt settled in, the pain intensified and Harry struggled to breathe. His depression was suffocating him.

Suddenly, the air buzzed with energy and a faint popping sound shook Harry from his reverie. He turned from his position at the window and found himself facing an elderly man dressed in resplendent purple robes, his long silver beard scraping the carpet, half-moon spectacles perched upon his nose topped off by a slightly askew wizard's hat resting on his head. He was staring face to face with his headmaster. The sight was so absurd in contrast with the Dursely's home that an unexpected laugh bubbled inside him. Dumbledore smiled.

"Good evening Harry, I imagine this comes as a surprise to you?" Dumbledore asked. Harry nodded his acquiescence, still unable to compose himself from the absurdness of the odd scene.

"I trust you have everything packed...?" Dumbledore asked after Harry had recovered.

"No , I didn't think you were coming," Harry admitted, a little embarrassed. Dumbledore had said he would come sometime in the break, but he thought that Dumbledore had either forgotten, or was just far too busy.

"Not to worry," Dumbledore replied with another smile and he waved his wand. Harry's trunk and spell books immediately flew upstairs along with his robes and his wand. Harry marvelled at the ease with which Dumbledore commanded his belongings, having them sort themselves out and pack according to some pre-designated paradigm.

"Sir," Harry said reluctantly, having realised something. "Hedwig is still out hunting, I don't know if we should leave without her..."

Dumbledore smiled again, "Hedwig is a remarkable creature," he said. "I'm sure she will be able to find you." Harry silently agreed - his owl was extremely remarkable. She sensed when and if Harry had left Number Four and always knew where he was headed. Granted, most of the time that was The Burrow, but last year it had been Grimmauld Place. Harry's chest gave another searing throb at the memory of his Godfather's home.

Dumbledore seemed to sense that something wasn't quite right, because his smile faltered. "Have you had a pleasant break?" He asked. Harry had the distinct impression that Dumbledore already knew the answer.

"I've been dreaming about him," Harry admitted sadly. He knew it was weak, which had never been his style, but he couldn't hold onto the pain alone anymore. He had to share it. Dumbledore's expression turned immediately to sympathy.

"That you feel this way Harry is a good thing. What happened in the Department of Mysteries was and is a tragedy, yes. But that you feel the pain of loss reminds us that you love and in turn can be loved."

Harry had heard a similar speech immediately following Sirius' death. Unsurprisingly, it didn't really offer him any solace. Again, Dumbledore's eerily acute senses seemed to pick this up too as he quickly changed the subject.

"Before we head to The Burrow, Harry, I have a favour to ask of you. I wish for you to accompany me to the home of an old friend of mine."

Harry quickly agreed; glad to be off the topic of Sirius' death. If he wasn't thinking about it, the wound in his chest only throbbed with pain rather than being seared.

"Of course . But... err... what do you expect me to do?" He asked.

"I will explain once we have left Number Four, Harry. The sooner we get there, the better. I sense that something may have gone awry tonight."  
"Hold on to my arm tightly Harry," Dumbledore said, thrusting out his arm. "You may find the experience a little... uncomfortable," he added.

Unexpectedly, Harry felt as if he was being squeezed through a rubber tube. For once, his inability to breathe was caused by something other than his extreme depression. As suddenly as the sensation had made itself known, it left. Harry glanced around at his surroundings. He sense that he was nowhere near Privet Drive anymore.

"You asked me to explain how you would be able to help, and I shall Harry, but would it bother you too much if I asked you to keep pace with me?" Dumbledore asked, no hint of impatience tainted his question, merely curiosity. Harry fell into stride beside Dumbledore.

"So, I guess it is appropriate to start by telling you that my friend has a penchant for famous witches and wizards."

"So he wants to be famous, then?" Harry asked.

"Not in the conventional sense, no. He does not seek out fame for himself; but rather, he likes to associate himself with that fame. He likes..." Dumbledore paused for a moment, apparently thinking of the appropriate phraseology. "He likes collecting people," he finished.

Harry understood what Dumbledore meant. And he was starting to understand what Dumbledore wanted from him. "So... you want me to allow myself to be collected, then?" Harry asked. Dumbledore smiled and bowed his head once.

"If you would, please."

They came to a halt outside a dilapidated looking building. The house looked almost like it had been blown up, and the garden gate was resting off one of its hinges. The eerie shine of the moon gave the place a sombre and almost dangerous feel about it. Dumbledore's smile was replaced with an apprehensive look.

"Be careful, Harry. Stick behind me and wand out," he said, wand raised. Harry dutifully fell behind Dumbledore taking in the shocking appearance of the property. Dumbledore nudged the door of the house, which was slightly ajar, fully open with his foot. The sight that greeted them upon entering was even more horrific than the outside view. The furniture was shredded and strewn across the floor, the paintings all hung askew or were lying broken on the floor, the lights were smashed, there were scratches along the walls, and what appeared to be blood smeared across almost every surface. Strangely, however, Dumbledore relaxed next to Harry and lowered his wand. His apprehensiveness had melted, and instead his face was a mixture of amusement and concentration. He slowly began examining the scene around him, closing his eyes and feeling for... something... in the air. He paused at an upturned sofa and opened his eyes. He stuck out his wand and poked the upside of it. To Harry's amazement, the sofa writhed and contorted until it resembled a portly man wearing a far-too-tight vest.

"Dumbledore," said the man-couch. "So lovely to see you."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So I apologise that this chapter is relatively short. I've been fairly busy over the past few days and I don't think I will be any less busy in the coming few days either! Please bear with me though. :) Oh, also, I am trying to re-write the story as much as possible in the first few chapters. As such, not too much of the story will be dedicated to Sirius... YET. But - there will come a time when I have to twist the story so that it will accommodate for Sirius/Harry, eventually. I will let you know when this is. It could be sooner, or later. It depends on whether or not a certain inspiration will strike! :)**

**A/N 2: I thank the one person who reviewed my previous chapter! PLEASE guys, reviews will keep me going. I am new at writing, and if I do not receive reviews I won't know whether I should continue or stop. Thank you!**

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The man-couch sounded anything but pleased to see the Headmaster in his home. His voice held a nervous tone and he was looking around warily.

"Horace," Dumbledore smiled. "It is lovely to see you again. But, do you think such precautions were really necessary?"

"Never can be too safe Dumbledore, my old friend," he continued. "The Death Eaters are recruiting and I'm a highly sought after man."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "Shall we get this cleaned up then?" He asked.

"Yes, yes, alright," the man-couch said. Together both Dumbledore and the portly man turned to face the disastrous mess, wands raised.

"On the count of three then," Dumbledore said. When the countdown had reached 3, both men drew an intricate figure eight-like pattern with their wands. The place immediately re-ordered itself. Broken glass returned to the mirrors and the picture frames, those same pictures flew into place and righted themselves on the wall, the furniture immediately started repairing itself, the stuffing flying back into the ripped seams, and the lights righted themselves and flickered on. Harry marvelled at the difference between the previous atmosphere and the current one.

"It looks like the dragon blood has been spoilt." Slughorn said, crouching over the blood which had been magically replaced into the vial. "That was my last vial. It cost me a quid too..." the portly man said disappointedly. He stood back up to his full height, which, granted wasn't much different than his crouched height. Suddenly his eyes landed on Harry. "Who's that you've brought there, then?" He questioned, eyebrows raised.

"That," Dumbledore smiled over to Harry. "That is Harry Potter. Harry, this is my dear friend Horace Slughorn."

Harry was used to the way everyone's eyes immediately widened and then travelled over his face until they landed upon his scar when his name was mentioned, but that still didn't make it any less unnerving when Slughorn appraised him.

"Bless my soul. So it is..." Slughorn said in awe. His face became guarded, however. "I know what you're doing Dumbledore," he said, still looking earnestly at Harry. "I'm not coming back."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "That is a shame. But, of course, I didn't think a man of your status would be swayed one way or another. It looks like Harry and I will sadly be on our way then. Firstly, however, I am afraid I am going to be a little rude and ask if I may use the bathroom?"

Slughorn grudgingly shifted his gaze from Harry to the taller man. "Yes, yes, it's just through there," he said, pointing to a hall at the back of the house.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said, ever so graciously. Before he left the room though, he smiled at Harry.

Taking the hint to somehow ensnare Slughorn, Harry slowly wandered around the house, looking at the numerous photographs decorating the room. His eyes settled on one in particular.

"Ah yes," Slughorn began, standing on tiptoes to examine what Harry was looking at. "Your mother. She was exceptionally bright. I always had high hopes for her, before..." Slughorn's face became a mask of sadness.  
"...You look like James, you know." He started. "Except your eyes. You have her eyes." His gaze held with Harry's for a long time.

Harry raised his lips in a half-smile. "I wish I could have gotten to know her," he said wistfully. Slughorn nodded. "Yes, she was quite the witch. I was surprised to hear that she was muggle-born!"

Harry's insides suddenly squirmed. Although he was uncomfortable in front of Slughorn, he wouldn't have thought that he was one to give any credence to blood purity. "One of my best friends is a muggle-born, and she's the best in our year," he replied defensively.

Slughorn's eyes widened at the tone that had crept into Harry's voice. "Oh no dear boy, don't get me wrong! I don't _care_ that she was a muggle-born. She was one of my favourites!" he said, attempting to appease Harry. "No, I was just surprised that she was." His eyes turned sullen again. Harry thought they held actual pain for Lily's loss. His gaze met Slughorn's for an immeasurable amount of time.

"Well, we should be going now Horace. It was nice chatting to you again. Until next we meet... Unless you have changed your mind?" The interruption jolted Slughorn out of his reverie. He stood still, seemingly torn. "Okay, I take the hint," Dumbledore said, chuckling. "I should have known there was no hope in swaying you." He made to leave.

"Wait, wait." Slughorn's voice was pained. He glanced over at Harry once more, who again lifted his lips in a half smile. "Fine, I'll do it!" Slughorn said irritably. "But I want a payrise!"

"Naturally," Dumbledore said his eyes twinkling. "In that case, I shall see you on the first of September." With that, he strode out the front door beckoning Harry to follow.

"I want to thank you Harry." He said, smiling. "I believe you might just have been the person needed to change Horace's mind."

"Sir," Harry began, "He said he knew my mother...?"

Dumbledore glanced at Harry before answering his unspoken question. "Horace was indeed fond of talented witches and wizards. Your mother, Harry, showed the most promise and was one of his prized students."

"Oh," Harry said. It was all he could muster. The discussion regarding his mother had reminded him of Sirius' recent passing, and had ripped open wounds that were already so deep. On top of the pain discussing his mother had caused, he felt himself flooded again with grief and guilt for his godfather's death.

"Now grab onto my arm tight Harry. Perhaps you will want to close your eyes this time; the feeling will still be unpleasant, but apparently it helps." Harry again acquiesced; closing his eyes did help a little. When he opened them, he was no longer in a dark cobbled street. It was on the crack of dawn and he was staring across a large field at a huge house which looked as if several floors had been added on by an incompetent architect. The place was so obviously held together by magic, he couldn't help but smile. It was his most favourite place in the world - besides Hogwarts of course. He could smell the dew on the grass and could hear chickens clucking from somewhere nearby. He looked up at Dumbledore, only to find that the headmaster had already disapparated. He shrugged and sighed, making his way to the Burrow.


End file.
